From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
The barracks again: except not out in the training grounds, despite the itch for a blade in his hands and the ability to render something to pieces. Instead, he took an hour in the morning to sit along the front parlor, at the long, extended table, paper and charcoal in hand, sketching out designations and designs for probable, upcoming defenses. With the next celebration approaching, there was a certain level of consternation and apprehension brooding along his brows, forming in the broader, bolder lines, in the quick, elongated brushstrokes. What would be best suited? The ice wall Loren had constructed, meant to keep the mud monster at bay, had eventually ricocheted and made flurried impalements, weapons of destruction instead of fortifications. There were notions of rock walls, of wooden barricades, but couldn’t the same thing happen? On a huff, on a sigh, the General rose and retreated from the surface, leaving the outlines there for further muddling and musing, when his mind wasn’t thoroughly occupied by everything else going on.
So perhaps he would turn to the wide-open fields themselves, where the targets lay, where destruction could unravel, where everything didn’t seem to be compounding all at once.
She hasn’t tried much since she’d gotten her eyes back – too distracted by councils and figuring out what to do with a queenship that she isn’t even sure of where to begin. But there are times where she realizes she needs to relax a bit, to work on being better to ensure she can accurately protect those around her, the people she cares about, the people she loves. And after Fiat Lux? Well, things were a bit difficult there too.
So, bundled up in a cloak with a parasol on her arm, she slips away to the Military Barracks, hoping to find a familiar face among the grounds. One she hasn’t seen in a long while – at least not so personally. She slips up beside him as he moves to the open fields of the training grounds. “Hello, General.” She hums to him, chipper and bright, giving a bright fanged smile should he turn to look.
Slipping out of the barrack’s threshold, he hadn’t expected anyone else; just the targets, and the notion of impending melees, a chase of ramparts, a way to unleash pent up agonies or brutalized notions. Certainly not Rexanna, but at the chipper, bright sound of his title, the beast’s head turned away from the bullseyes in his sights, and over to the Penumbra. “Hello, Queen,” he managed through a snicker, a snort, half-inclined to register a your majesty over the accord – but a majority of what little humor he’d had stored up prior to the passing days had been extinguished. The beast thought to slink away from her brightness, her ebullience too, retreat into darkness and shadow, be comforted in the absence of anything but apathy and distance. Instead, perhaps because he knew better, he maneuvered towards her, offering an arm as they wandered their way through the training grounds. “What brings you here?” The Sword hadn’t missed any council meetings, that he was aware of – everything had gone by in a haze recently, distractions and routines immersed throughout the results of chaos. Perhaps she simply sought him out. Or meant to better herself too, the grounds open to anyone and everyone requiring some assistance, some practice, or some skill in defensive or offensive arts.
His hello is granted with a fanged smile, a bubble of laughter at the way the tables turned. She recalls this like it’s nostalgic, only the roles reversed, the land around them a chilly snowscape, tents filled with schematics and plans lingering within. Regardless, she shifts her hood slightly, with a hum of laughter after a brief moment as the memory flits through, the irony of it all. How she’d never expected it. But he approaches her, offering his arm, and she takes it gratefully with a nod and another bright grin.
The question of what brought her here has her contemplating how to bring it up, and her emerald gaze flits around the targets surrounding the training grounds. “I wanted to train.” She offers, head tilting toward him with a bright smile, the fire burning within her bright, restored sight. “I have an upgrade I haven’t tested yet… One I think I specifically wanted to kind of.. Null Abandoned magic. And since you’re my best friend, and Abandoned, I thought I’d come see you about it.” She muses, voice bright and cheerful despite the topic. “And probably work on my other magic as well, I’ve been a bit rusty without my sight.” She hums a quiet chime of a laugh at that.
He’d been proud of her accomplishments; but he knew what being at the helm could do, the pressures upon shoulders, the strangled noose choking, clawing, basking at throats, the way capabilities, powers, and strength were tested day after day, night after night. He didn’t envy the position – never had, never would, not after all his experiences – content in his soldier manifestations, in the diligence, the skill, the efforts of might and tenacity. So no laughter flickered through him, no amusement seething at the edges; not all recollections of the Basin great or grand.
Which led them to the subject matter at the heart of the moment: training. Why he existed on the council at all; to provide aid in regards to their underlying menace, abilities, or dominion. He wasn’t surprised at her wishes; even rulers had to settle into their mettle. Even the schism of her upgrades (whatever that entailed) didn’t truly bother him – the insinuations underneath not so grating, not so fractious, when there a thousand other things hastening and clawing. He lifted a brow at the comment of best friend, because he couldn’t ever recall having one, and the attached title felt special, for a second, for a moment.
On the entanglements and requirements, he left her on an opposing side of the fields, gaining some yards apart from her, stretching, savage strides, contemplating distance amidst the fortitude. Deimos then turned back, facing the Queen, lifting his head, granting a nod; a come-at-him approach and acceptance all at once. “Where do you want to start?”
She holds onto his arm lightly, following him through the training grounds with her hood pulled up tight — thankful to not feel any of the heat that swarms during LongHeat, saddened that she can’t feel the sun on her skin without the intense pain that comes with it. She finds a space where he leaves her within the shadow, tipping back her hood and ruffle her hair gently, before she focuses on him with a beaming fanged grin. “Start with the magic, end with the upgrade maybe?” She muses curiously.
She sticks her little piece of tech into her pocket to free her palms, rubbing them together as though she’s about to do something large, when in reality she’s just filling the space. Then, assuming Deimos agrees, she extends her palms and tries to aim a small fireball his way, sure he can handle it after hearing about the Monster Hunter’s Guild. Her brows scrunch slightly with her concentration, trying to arc it up towards the Reaper.
He gave her a nod, acceptance of the terms, formalities, and sequencing – grounding his weight into the earth, ready and eager for whatever she sent his way. He wasn’t certain of how she’d been prospering in terms of growth either: knowing full well the effects Caido seemed to have on their Abandoned prowess: emergence of prosperities even if they were looked upon as naught more than savages.
Ah, but fire was familiar, and he might’ve smirked, smiled, as the flames came his way. He raised his palms, and remained otherwise unmoving, rooted to the spot in concentration and daring as the cinders volleyed – catching them in the air, mastered contortions conspiring, whirling, and gratifying, the semblance of smoke, fumes, and ash in his wake. Scorches and echoes of the FireSword blistered in his existence, and within a breath, he’d drawn the fury of the fire’s presence wider, bigger, stronger; an expansion of devastation and ruin. He clenched his jaw in memories from past seasons, saw monster’s teeth somewhere in the midst, and then hurled, harpooned it back towards the Penumbra, eager to see what she’d come up with in retaliation.
Okay, so perhaps fire wasn’t the best idea to start with. She realizes this as she sends her flame toward Deimos, only to have him return the favor. It comes harpooning back to her with a wide green eyed look as she has a moment of panic. An oh shit, instinctively her palms shoot out toward it and she shoots out an upgraded firework, hoping ti might attract the fire and explode somewhere around the middle of the field they stand upon.
She realizes then that she wishes she had some form of water magic, something to work toward being able to protect her and her fellow Ascendeds from flame. Perhaps it’s something she’ll consider once the time comes, if she gets stronger and better. But for now? Fire and fireworks are at her disposal, as well as the creation of blades and daggers to be concealed and tossed and thrown. But for now, she hopes to catch the fire in the middle before it hits her directly.
Ah yes, the fireworks. He watched as she attempted to dissuade the fire entirely by adding more sizzling contortions to it, amused as they split apart (a snort somewhere embedded along his chest), as embers simmered and fell down together onto the grounds – palms quietly extended to ensure the cinders were put out quickly, efficiently, in no mood to handle the latest accidental brushfire.
The rest seemed to be in his court now, and though he was thoroughly tempted to resolve his way around a weapon, create and contort it through his hands, the insinuations she required other combative forms melded away from that nature. Instead then, on a silent, quiet, deadly hunt, he unfurled the portions of something she’d find unholy and familiar; life drain, pulling and pulsing from his presence. He purposefully ensured it wasn’t up to the mastered prowess, control and composure inkling past his feet, sinking into the ground, and unwinding towards the Penumbra. He wasn’t there to harm, to maim, or to maul, but to practice, for her to experience and see what else could be wielded, or how to defend against maelstroms of menace.
She breathes an unneeded sigh of relief as she watches her fireworks explode within the flame, effectively distracting it from reaching her. Though she can still feel the heat, feel the thundering of her bones within her that she needs to go, and she laughs awkwardly as it begins to fall away into simmering embers along the earth around them. “I forgot I was Ascended for a second.” She offers to Deimos.
But she says nothing more as she can feel a familiar presence within her, and it causes her to shake her head against it as she focuses her attention on Deimos. “Hey now. I like the idea of being able to hug you this time.” She snorts, giving him a bright fanged grin before creating a dull throwing knife in her hand, using the energy she has to toss it and arc it across to either bounce against the broad chest of his or distract him enough to stop it.
He snorted at the first insinuation, the refusal to balk from fire until reality ensued, arching a brow at the antics, shaking his head while life drain contorted and hinted in its terrible wake. Residual effects of yesteryears and glories, where he’d either burst from the seams and terrorize the world, or let them flicker apart with warnings and ultimatums. He might have laughed at the last statement – because touching him likely shouldn’t have been such a reward - when eons before no one could have traced over his foundation, his figure, his frame, without pain, anguish, and defiance riddling, scorching their bones, their essence, their life.
The beast rewarded her with pulling it back and away once she’d tossed, hurled, a knife at him, ducking effectively, listening to it ping somewhere along the grounds, at a distance. In the same retrospect and interval, he too contorted a series of throwing knives, relishing the feeling of them along the pads of his fingers, familiar and brutal. He flicked his wrist, harpooning three in her direction, chuckling in their dangerous treads.
She watches as he ducks her knives tossed toward him, and she snorts before taking a stance to prepare against the retaliation she’s sure to receive. The life drain pulls away and she stretches her neck a small amount, palms up and ready to create something to work against it. But a thought hits her as she watches the three knives begin to fly toward her.
She lifts her palms a bit higher, shooting out smaller fireworks toward each one of the blades, hoping it might bounce against them and dart their course. A practice of sorts, moving targets, ones she wouldn’t feel bad about hitting if she does dead on.
Fireworks once more, meant to engulf, bound, or ricochet off the knives. The fringes of metal were simultaneously obliterated (he covered a laugh, a snort, a grin here too; content in chaos and destruction from time to time – like primeval instincts rising across veins and flesh), simpering down to the ground on leftover fringes of seething, burning wood. Out of some entangled mischief and rapacious, irreverent endeavors, the beast claimed his own infernal expanse again, unfurling it in rapid motions, volley after volley, miniature fireballs escalating and building as they sought to reach the Penumbra. They weren’t on airs of malice, or menacing boundaries of abhorrence or distaste; more of a game, a challenge, a goading, to see what she could come up with each time to balance out the ricocheting, entangled quandaries.
Because the world wouldn’t settle, and neither could they; always twisting, always turning, always raising their powers to new heights and conflagrations. Just to have a chance at survival.
The fireballsbecause skylark can’t fuckin read begin to descend upon her as she finishes up her fireworks, and she spies the volleys like daggers aimed for her heart, a thundering pounding of fluid behind her ear at the realization once more that fire wasn’t a good plan. But it’s likely her foes would know this, it’s likely she shouldn’t freeze under the attention of it. And so she doesn’t, sidestepping one of the flames, trying to reach out with her fire magic to redirect the course of one of them.
But then, in her distraction, one singes the fabric along her shoulder, and she uses her fire magic to douse it should it spark – though the fabric smokes in the space where she’d been singed. And she turns to Deimos with a fanged smirk, a gruff laugh, before she approaches him quickly as she can, reaching out to touch his arm, to activate her upgrade, to see if it quells the magic within him as it does her own.
